


Last Day Alive

by Nabooru



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Het, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabooru/pseuds/Nabooru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-canon. A tom with something to prove, a queen with only one day to live, and a chance encounter that changes everything and nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Day Alive

This was no place for a tom like him. His lineage was flawless, his upbringing the height of class.

So what was he doing in this deepest, darkest, back-of-beyond pub, brooding at the bar while the wild street cats carried on all around him with their brawls and gambling and whatever else they busied themselves with?

With a derisive snort, he realized he knew the answer. It was all pointless, that was why he hated everything. It was probably why he'd ended up here, but he didn't feel like thinking it through that far.

After all, he'd run away to lose himself.

 

There was a scuffle. How long had he been here? Minutes? Hours? He didn't remember, and supposed it didn't matter.

Someone had slunk into the pub.

A mass of bruises and cuts.

There was blood on the floor.

And nobody seemed to notice.

He turned away, but curiosity drew his gaze back. Black gold and blood. Why wasn't anybody helping?

This was the deepest, darkest, back-of-beyond pub in London, that's why.

Thieves and mercenaries don't have any use for the weak.

He pondered.

 

She had to laugh. Tried to, anyway.

How pathetic.

Battered and bleeding all over the floor, without even the strength to get back up. She wasn't quite sure how she made it here in the first place, only that she was a fool for ever thinking of it as sanctuary.

The familiar wooden floors, now stained and ugly.

 _Just like me_.

She did laugh then, though it hurt badly and came out as a hacking cough.

The sound drew attention; whispers flew swiftly across the tavern.

They knew who she was. She was Macavity's queen. Macavity's Whore, on a nice day.

If she was beaten this badly it meant she wouldn't be his queen much longer; if they only knew. She probably had one day left to live, if Macavity decided to be generous.

How amusing, if only she didn't _hurt_ so much.

She stifled a groan but couldn't stop her head from lolling for a good, long minute.

There was a new tom in the bar. She'd never seen him before.

He was watching her.

Didn't he know _who she was_?

 

It took him a long time to realize that this was not just any victim of street violence, this tattered scrap of felinity was a queen.

He knew he should help her. Nobody else was going to, that much was obvious. But he hesitated.

Even his own people scorned him. Always wanting to help! Didn't he know better?

They said it was impossible to save all the heathen cats, that they should not even try, and should focus instead on the lives of their own people. Leave the others to rot, let their wounds fester with their own hatred.

They were wrong.

He could save them, at least some.

All he had to do was start with _one_.

 

He was coming toward her. Great. What had she gotten herself into?

"Are you all right?" he asked, sitting down beside her. He appeared to be inspecting her wounds.

She didn't answer his question. It should have been plain as day to anyone with _eyes_ that no, she was not all right. "What's your name?"

"Munkustrap."

"Demeter," she said, and was proud that she neither stuttered nor cowered. Pride was followed by a horrible, wracking cough. She tasted blood. If she was lucky, she would just fall asleep and die.

"You need help."

She tried to speak and failed, and tried again. "You can't help _me_."

"I can try."

 

She laughed at him. "You really … think you can," she gasped, struggling to speak, "help me? You don't even know … who I am…"

He smiled. She was right. "I don't need to."

She had no retort for that.

He leaned forward, pulled her toward him. He would help her walk, if she was able, or would carry her, if he had to. "Come, I'll take you to my people. We have healers, who will help you."

"He'll come after me, the one who did this. And when he does, all your 'help' will be for nothing."

"Then we will cross that bridge when we get to it. My people have fighters, too," he told her. He should know. He was one of them.

He managed to get her up, leaning against him, with one arm wrapped round his neck. She could walk, after a fashion.

"This is madness," she protested, wheezing slightly but no longer coughing.

"What isn't?"

She had no answer.

Stumbling, they managed to get outside.

"How far to where your people live?" she asked.

"Too far," he answered.

They set off together anyway.

 

A long time ago, Demeter made a promise to herself. She swore to live each day as her last and to bear no regrets.

That promise had led her ever onward, through thick and thin, and into the greatest adventures of her life. She had seen love and loss and love again, and knew the pain of its demise. It had also brought her to death's door and left her there with a choice to make: carry on, or give up.

The choice was obvious.

And even now, battered and broken and on the brink of a new life, clinging helplessly to a tom she did not know and heading toward a place she did not believe existed, she found she had no regrets, after all.


End file.
